


Vive <s>Marianne</s> Britannia!

by Rose_To_Fall



Category: Anthropomorphism, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: Apologies to Melannen, Author has sung "Tony Blair can fuck off and die" at full volume and meant it, One of my pet AUs has escaped it's fictional world and crossed into RPF, Oops, Other, Other tags to be added, Sorry Not Sorry, The Scottish Situation | The Jacobite Rebellion of 2014
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-14
Updated: 2014-10-14
Packaged: 2018-02-21 05:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2455709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rose_To_Fall/pseuds/Rose_To_Fall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For a prompt in a place that shall remain nameless.</p>
    </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt in a place that shall remain nameless.

**Then**

The bright red slash of lipstick is the first thing he notice about her. And then he notices her bright red dress and how she's watching Clegg with the same hunger as the entire nation seems to. Someone steps between the two of them, and in that split second she's gone and he's pressing the flesh with everyone he's suppose to.

The next time he sees her, he's standing on the platform in his constituency and she's changed subtly. Her lipstick is darker, and the dress she's wearing is a deep blue and she's looking _at him_ with hunger. And with something else he can't place. He's hustled out of the town hall and into a car as soon as the results have been announced.

He doesn't see her again until most of the results have come in, and he realises that he has two options - neither of which was particularly palatable - either he had to woo Clegg or attempt to run the country with a minority government. Her dress had lightened to green and her lipstick picked up an orange undertone, but it was unmistakably her, and he turned back to trying to work out what the sacred cows were for the negotiations with a little more - unexpected - confidence

It's not until he goes to the Palace that it fully registers there's something odd going on with her. She's draped - artistically - over one of the couches he's fairly sure are supposed to be purely for display and one of the crowns of state is balanced on her head.

The Queen laughs when he fails to keep his eyes from widening, and a gesture from her sends everyone else scurrying from the room, even as the unnamed woman sits up, the crown slipping back on her head.

"So you _do_ see her. Good. It's been a while since one of you did." She turned her head. "Britannia, make your curtsey to your new prime minister."

"But I wanted Clegg." The voice was petulant, and didn't quite fit the woman in front of him. Human voices weren't supposed to sound like _that_. the Queen raised her eyebrows. "Britannia, he can see you, and he's going into coalition with the Liberals. Would you rather have had another parliament of being ignored by the Scot?"

The not-woman's mouth snapped shut, and she rose to her feet, one hand balancing the crown on her head, and then, when it was steady sank into a deep curtsy that she held. His eyes flicked to the Queen, the corner of whose lips were twitching suspiciously.

"She's your dance partner, Mister Cameron, for as long as you can hold your government together." He can only blink in response, before stepping forward and raising Britannia from her curtsy. She flowed into his arms in response.

"My advice would be that you practice your poker face, Mister Cameron. And to check who else in your cabinet can see her – I would rather not have to intervene when they attempt to section you for talking to yourself. Now go and form my government."


	2. Chapter 2

**Now**

"I HATE YOU!" he rubbed his temples, trying to alleviate his incipient headache. He was also scrambling to figure out exactly who was screaming at him and why they were doing so at such a god-awful hour in the morning. The voice was slightly muffled, but too high-pitched to be an angry George and Nick tended to slip into one of his other languages when his emotions ran high.

He blinked the sleep out of his eyes, and wished again that he was sharing his bed with someone (and preferably someone who either *didn't* see Britannia or was better at handling her than he was) and then the modality in the voice registered.

"What's wrong now, Britannia?"

"Caledonia is going to leave me, *and it's all your fault*." She was holding a document he recognised from his red box of the night before. He flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He counted to 10 in his head, and wondered if Clement Attlee had had as much a problem with Britannia's abandonment issues, or if this was somehow Blair's fault. He never had asked the Queen how long it had been since one of her prime ministers had been able to see Britannia.

"No. She's not. I'm heading up to Scotland on the overnight train this evening, and we'll talk her down." Britannia continued to look at him like he was an idiot. 

He scrubbed at his forehead and then having done a quick check for any of the private staff, gave in.

"Britannia, I'm tired and I'm obviously missing something. Please tell me what, before we end up having another one of those days."


End file.
